I wonder how the vote will go.
As odd as it may sound, the prospect of being removed from the nanocloud stung. And it wasn’t that long ago that Abe had chastised me for a related fault: You got you a good conscience, Gemma. Lu made sure of that. But just sayin’ you wish you hadn’t done somethin’ don’t fix it. Don’t make it right an’ don’t make your heart light again.
“Nano?”
Yes, Gemma Keyes?
They answered me!
“Please give me another chance.”
Silence.
I walked on, troubled in my soul. I was worried about my relationship with the nanomites (okay, weird, I admit) and, at the same time, my attention was split between them and my anxieties over Emilio, over Abe and Zander. Oh, and the FBI guy.
The FBI guy . . .
I frowned. What were his next moves? What if he started looking into the indirect link between Gemma Keyes and Mateo and his boss, Dead Eyes, between the assault on my house and Mateo’s gang? What if he pulled on that thread—just to see where it went?
That would not be good.
Cushing was searching for me, monitoring for the slightest query or mention of my name. If Gamble reached out to her, queried her on the assault, wouldn’t she would jump on him? Wouldn’t she then refocus her attention on Zander and Abe? And wouldn’t that lead to Emilio?
Aaaand, my concerns flipped right back to Emilio. At present, he was consigned to the tender mercies of CYFD—and likely swearing a blue streak, cussing me out like he used to when he squatted on the curb in front of his uncle’s house and threw gang signs in my direction.
That kid had been a royal pain in my backside only months ago, but he had become precious to me since then. I had to shield him from Cushing!
First, I needed to check up on him, visit him and make sure he was okay. Let him know we hadn’t abandoned him to foster care. The nanomites would find him, give me his location.
Except . . . oh, yeah. The mites were ticked off at me.
Way to go, Gemma.
Sigh.
I stopped at a coffee shop whose sign boasted lattes and free Wi-Fi. I sat on the grass next to their parking lot and tried again to reach out to the nanomites.
“Nano.” I closed my eyes and (relief!) opened them in that strange place I called the warehouse. I attempted to frame my request in a more nano-like manner.
Nano. I would like to know where Emilio is. He must be feeling lonely. Abandoned. Would you please find him? Show me where he is?
I was pleasantly surprised when a stream of information flew by me. I grabbed what I needed and studied it.
Emilio had been placed with a short-term foster family while his case was being evaluated. I approved of the evidence CYFD had gathered against Mateo: no food in the house, documented neglect, allegations of physical abuse, assault against the neighbor who reported the neglect.
I’ll bet Mateo’s attack on Abe and Zander ends his chances of ever getting Emilio back.
It was, perhaps, the only positive outcome of the situation.
I read another form that listed the name of Emilio’s school; I looked up the school’s website and found the student release time.
Yeah. As I suspected, I can’t get to his school before dismissal. I’ll have to catch him tomorrow.
I boarded a bus headed across town toward the safe house. For the most part, I was recovered from the nanomites’ drain but, by the time I let myself in the back door, I figured I’d be exhausted—except I wasn’t.
Odd.
In fact, I couldn’t seem to let down. I guess too much had happened in the past forty-eight hours. My emotions were keyed up and so was my body—really keyed up.
To burn off the nervous drive, I spent part of the late afternoon running laps around the block. I set a nice, leisurely pace down the sidewalk, aiming to run for thirty minutes. While I jogged, I realized something else . . . and, again, it was odd.
I was much more alert than usual. Aware of my surroundings. I noticed things I hadn’t before—like how many houses and cars were on each side of the street. On my second lap around the block, the numbers of each house and car were at my fingertips from the first time around the block—as were the makes and models of each car . . . and how many windows each house had, what materials the houses were built of, and their colors and roof style.
Huh?
I completed a third lap, still at a sedate jog—and still (without trying to) collecting weird bits and pieces of information about everything and everyone I saw. Apparently, I had memorized all the street signs, all the house numbers, and all the license plates. It was as though whatever I looked at fastened itself to my brain.
I closed my eyes to shut out the influx of unwanted factoids—only to find myself anticipating every driveway cutout in the sidewalk, every curb, and precisely when to make the turns at the corners. I was running blind without putting a foot wrong.
After four circuits around the block, my muscles felt like they were just getting warmed up. I moved out onto the softer asphalt of the street, increased my pace, and sprinted through a fifth complete circumference of the block.
I sure had a lot of stamina!
I picked up the pace yet again, amazed at my speed and endurance, circling the block twice at an all-out run. I blazed through my last lap, but when I left off with the laps, I wasn’t even winded—and I still felt antsy. I moved to the backyard and put myself through a grueling regimen of lunges, push-ups, and a full menu of calisthenics.
Then I fixed dinner—double portions of my usual fare. I chowed down on everything I’d prepared and added a banana and a granola bar before I felt replete. By the time I went to bed that evening, I tingled with vitality.
Um . . . interesting much?
I fell into a deep sleep, heartened that I would be seeing Emilio the next day. I avoided dwelling on whatever was happening to me in the physical realm.
But something was happening.
***
I awoke early the following morning, vibrating with out-of-the-norm vigor and awareness. I had never felt this good, this energetic straight out of bed, nor had I been alert and actually observant first thing.
Generally, I woke up over two cups of strong coffee—but straight out of bed? This day I had so much “juice” running through my veins that I decided to abstain from my usual morning java.
You know people who, while watching a musical, can’t help themselves? People who jump up to sing and dance along? Yeah, that. I was afraid of that. I was scared that ingesting caffeine might result in spontaneous karaoke—and caroming off the walls.
After I ate, showered, and dressed in record time, I shot out the door, determined to expel some of the restlessness I was finding so difficult to corral. The sun wasn’t fully up as I jogged at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. I was preoccupied with my thoughts, mulling over what was happening—because, obviously, this livelier (and über-attentive) version of myself did not exist only “in my head.”
It was real.
This weird increase in energy and stamina must be a product of the “merge.” Nothing else makes sense.
I thought back to the mites’ astonishing announcement about the merge—while I’d bled copious amounts from my nose and upchucked all over the house. After I’d slept off the debilitating effects of the merge, I hadn’t had time to process what our “union” meant before news of Mateo Martinez’s attack on my friends had sent me on a panicked flight to the hospital. I had been so distraught over Abe and Zander and in such turmoil over Emilio, that I hadn’t had time to consider what the mites had done and were continuing to do in me.
Yes, I was anxious for my friends, but when I stopped to think about it, underneath my concern for Abe, Zander, and Emilio, I was mighty concerned for myself!
What is it, exactly, that the mites are doing, and how are they doing it? How is this so-called merge likely to affect me in the future?
Sure, when the nanomites began “speaking
” in my ear, it had freaked me out; however, their explanation had seemed plausible enough, the whole “vibrations = words” thing. Their “speaking” in my ear was non-invasive, wasn’t it? I had even accepted the strange “warehouse” business, mainly because I was enamored with how “cool” it was to collect and sort the data they fed me.
The burr under my saddle this morning was the how. Like, how was it possible for me to go into this place, this “warehouse” in my head and see the river of data the mites mined? How was I able to filter and sort the information—let alone keep up with it and comprehend it?
My newest question, as I ran down the street, was how were they doing this? This juiced-up state? This retention of every detail I saw?
It occurred to me that elements of this merge business might not show up for a while—I mean, I wasn’t worried that I’d wake up tomorrow with two heads, but then again, I hadn’t seen this hyperactive/hyperalert state coming either, had I? And what was the point of it? What purpose did it serve?
Uneasy about my future health, I started taking inventory of what had changed—or, at least, the changes I knew of so far.
One. I no longer needed to speak everything aloud to the nanomites. In the warehouse—that mental space where we met—they “heard” me. On top of that, I was seeing more instances where the mites intuited my actions or what I wanted from them.
I harbored a question about the mites’ “intuitive” actions: Was I seeing more than Dr. Bickel’s predictive logic algorithms at work in them? Could their actions be the product of some sort of shared mental state with me? Maybe like a Vulcan mind meld?
I don’t know much about how the brain works, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the nanomites could see and translate my thoughts as they occurred.
Creepy.
Well, they were swimming around in there, in my brain, weren’t they? Could they taste or feel my thoughts?
This last idea made more sense than I wanted it to.
I picked up my pace and closed out Item One on my list. I moved on to the next item.
Two. In the warehouse, I could access any knowledge the nanomites possessed or any data they mined through the Internet. When I entered the warehouse, I could search, sort, and find whatever I was looking for. More than that, I understood and retained what I saw!
Three. I was (I theorized) hopped up on energizing nano juice that made me hyper-observant. I mean, wow, I seemed to suck in every little detail of everything I saw, and—
A clash of disgruntled chitters rang in my ear.
Gemma Keyes. We have pressing work to do. We must find Dr. Bickel. Where are we going and for what purpose?
Oooops. Right. Communication. Cooperation. Consensus.
I blew out a chastised breath.
“Sorry, Nano. Yesterday, you told me where to find Emilio. I would like to visit him, reassure him that he hasn’t been forgotten. Just a visit. Maybe thirty minutes? Oh. And I would like to stop at the hospital and check up on Abe beforehand. See if what you did for him has improved his condition? A short visit, less than thirty minutes. I promise.”
Add an hour or more on each side to get there and back, plus transit time between the hospital and Emilio’s school. So, actually most of the morning.
“Um, what do you think?”
The confab started: I was bombarded by multiple “voices” in my ear that all sounded the same. I couldn’t tell them apart and they spoke over each other, each voice a data dump I absorbed and tried to keep up with.
I had to stop walking. I dropped down on someone’s lawn, covered my eyes, and returned to the warehouse.
It is hard to explain what being a participant in the confab was like. It wasn’t like debate club, where vying sides presented their reasoned but impassioned POV, and it wasn’t adversarial, the way a courtroom drama plays out—with the intention of proving guilt or innocence: I win, ergo, you lose. The individual tribes were not trying to “win.” They presented the information their tribe had collected on the subject—information analyzed from that tribe’s unique perspective and role—and the swarm, the nanocloud, assessed the whole of the data with one goal: the common good.
And that was the rub. Their idea of the common good and my view of the common good were not the same. Not even close.
The nanotribes saw no value in visiting Emilio.
Well, I did. I cast about for a reason that might sway the mites: I called upon our shared desire to spring Dr. Bickel to move the consideration in my favor.
“Nano. I am a complex human organism. I have emotional needs that inspire and, uh, motivate me. The six of us are agreed that we must resume our search for Dr. Bickel. However, I cannot concentrate on that task if I’m distracted by my, um, emotional needs. Abe and Emilio’s welfare is essential to my emotional well-being, and my emotional needs are important factors in my ability to function.”
I heard a proposal that the removal of my emotional components should be weighed and given careful consideration.
What? A lobotomy? I’m not kidding—that a tribe would suggest such an action made me shiver.
I was quick to interject, “Nano. Consider this: Removing my emotions is not possible without damaging my value as a tribe. My affection for Dr. Bickel is what motivates me to search for him. If you remove that emotion, I will have no need, no desire, to find him.
“Listen: A quick visit with Abe and then Emilio is all I need to set my mind at ease. Should take no more than, um, a couple hours. Then we can return home and continue our hunt for Dr. Bickel.”
I was accustomed to the next part of the confab: silence. I guess they evaluated the input within each tribe before voting? I didn’t know; I only knew it was quiet until, one by one, the five tribes weighed in.
The outcome of the vote was, Gemma Keyes, for the well-being of your emotional components, we will visit Abraham Pickering and Emilio Martinez.
I exhaled my relief. “Thank you.”
***
When we arrived at the hospital, I retraced my steps to the Pavilion, took the elevator to the MICU unit and, for a second time, waved the doors open and breezed through. Breakfast for the patients had ended. The staff had cleared the trays away; I saw a few doctors making rounds.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw Abe, but when I made my way to his bedside and slipped my hand into his, his condition was different.
Vastly different.
Abe’s color had improved in spectacular fashion; his skin wasn’t yet the glossy ebony I loved, but it also wasn’t a death-like gray. His breathing was easier, too, and—
Hey! They took out your breathing tube, Abe!
I spoke in my head and not aloud, but Abe opened his eyes and fixed them on me as if he could see me. I felt the light pressure of his hand on mine.
“Gem . . .” His voice, rough from the tube, stuck on my name.
“Shhh. Don’t talk, Abe,” I whispered back. I was happy—no, thrilled—at his improved condition.
“W-wa . . .”
Was he allowed water? He was still hooked up to an IV. The call button hung above his head. I could have pushed it, but the nurse would have thought it miraculous for Abe to have reached it on his own.
“Um, hold on.”
I walked out into the ward and found a phone on the wall at the end. I had the nanomites dial the nearest nursing station. “Say, I believe the gentleman in Room 22 is asking for a drink of water. I didn’t want to get him one myself, because I don’t know if it is allowed.”
“Thank you. Who is this?”
Click.
I’d already hung up.
I waited around until a nurse had helped Abe take a sip of water and offered him a few ice chips. Then I returned to his bedside.
“How are you feeling now, Abe?”
“Whole lot . . . better’n I thought I’d be when those . . . punks came at us,” he rasped.
“Yeah, they did a number on both of you, but the nanomites went in and fixed
a few things.”
“They did?” I could see that he didn’t know whether to be grateful or appalled.
“Yes, and I’m so glad they did. When did they take the tube out of your throat?”
“Bout . . . hour ago. Sore.”
“I can imagine! But it proves that you are doing so much better.”
My heart was sure doing better!
The nanomites chipped in my ear, and I imagined them with a micro stopwatch, counting every second I spent with Abe.
“Listen, Abe. I shouldn’t stay long. I’ll come check on you again soon, but right now I need to find Emilio and make sure he’s okay.”
“Gem . . . Gemma, you tell that boy . . . you tell that boy . . . soon as I get better, I’ll come get him back.”
Abe’s words warmed me. “I’ll tell him, Abe. Thank you, my dear friend.”
~~**~~
Chapter 11
I headed for the bus stop when I left the hospital, boarded yet another time-sucking city bus, and arrived at Emilio’s school at the start of morning recess. I kept looking for him in the clusters of screaming kids overrunning the playground equipment, but I couldn’t find him. When I did spot him, he was off by himself, scrunched down on a step, his face bent toward the ground.
Kind of how he used to sit on the curb in front of his uncle’s house.
I made my way over and plopped down next to him.
“Hey.”
He didn’t flinch or act surprised, just scooted away from me with a disgusted sniff.
“Emilio? How are you doing?”
“What you care?”
If possible, he was angrier than before we’d become friends.
I sighed. “Emilio, we do care. We—”
“Liar! No, you don’t! You sticked me in foster care an’ Zander an’ that old man forgot about me! After you promised!”
“Oh, Emilio, I’m so sorry! I only found out what happened yesterday. I went straight to see them as soon as I could get there—and school was already out when I got done. I just saw Abe again and came here straight after. He’s doing much better.”
He sat up and stared in my direction. “What you talkin’ ’bout?”
“Don’t look at me,” I cautioned. “If they catch you talking to imaginary friends, they’ll ship you off to some loony bin.”
Stealth Power Page 12
